He staggered in circles, and I watched, my face stony. I closed my mind to him, to his feeling his death crawl up behind him. I stood ready to knife him a second time when he fell to the ground. When I was sure he couldn't move, I went to Bill's house, but I didn't run. I told myself it was because I couldn't: but I'm not sure. I kept seeing my grandmother, encapsuled in Rene's memory forever, fighting for her life in her own house.
I fished Bill's key out of my pocket, almost amazed it was still there.
I turned it somehow, staggered into the big living room, felt for the phone. My fingers touched the buttons, managed to figure out which was the nine and where the one was. I pushed the numbers hard enough to make them beep, and then, without warning, I checked out of consciousness.
I KNEW I was in the hospitaclass="underline" I was surrounded by the clean smell of hospital sheets.
The next thing I knew was that I hurt all over.
And someone was in the room with me. I opened my eyes, not without effort.
Andy Bellefleur. His square face was even more fatigued than the last time I'd seen him.
"Can you hear me?" he said.
I nodded, just a tiny movement, but even that sent a wave of pain through my head.
"We got him," he said, and then he proceeded to tell me a lot more, but I fell back asleep.
It was daylight when I woke again, and this time, I seemed to be much more alert.
Someone in the room.
"Who's here?" I said, and my voice came out in a painful rasp.
Kevin rose from the chair in the corner, rolling a crossword puzzle magazine and sticking it into his uniform pocket.
"Where's Kenya?" I whispered.
He grinned at me unexpectedly. "She was here for a couple of hours," he explained. "She'll be back soon. I spelled her for lunch."
His thin face and body formed one lean line of approval. "You are one tough lady," he told me.
"I don't feel tough," I managed.
"You got hurt," he told me as if I didn't know that.
"Rene."
"We found him out in the cemetery," Kevin assured me. "You stuck him pretty good. But he was still conscious, and he told us he'd been trying to kill you."
"Good."
"He was real sorry he hadn't finished the job. I can't believe he spilled the beans like that, but he was some kind of hurting and he was some kind of scared, by the time we got to him. He told us the whole thing was your fault because you wouldn't just lie down to die like the others. He said it must run in your genes, because your grandmother ..." Here Kevin stopped short, aware that he was on upsetting ground.
"She fought, too," I whispered.
Kenya came in then, massive, impassive, and holding a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee.
"She's awake," Kevin said, beaming at his partner.
"Good." Kenya sounded less overjoyed about it. "She say what happened? Maybe we should call Andy."
"Yeah, that's what he said to do. But he's just been asleep four hours."
"The man said call."
Kevin shrugged, went to the phone at the side of the bed. I eased off into a doze as I heard him speaking, but I could hear him murmur with Kenya as they waited. He was talking about his hunting dogs. Kenya, I guess, was listening.
Andy came in, I could feel his thoughts, the pattern of his brain. His solid presence came to roost by my bed. I opened my eyes as he was bending to look at me. We exchanged a long stare.
Two pair of feet in regulation shoes moved out into the hall.
"He's still alive," Andy said abruptly. "And he won't stop talking."
I made the briefest motion of my head, indicating a nod, I hoped.
"He says this goes back to his sister, who was seeing a vampire. She evidently got so low on blood that Rene thought she'd turn into a vamp herself if he didn't stop her. He gave her an ultimatum, one evening in her apartment. She talked back, said she wouldn't give up her lover. She was tying her apron around her, getting ready to go to work as they were arguing. He yanked it off her, strangled her... did other stuff."
Andy looked a little sick.
"I know," I whispered.
"It seems to me," Andy began again, "that somehow he decided he'd feel justified in doing that horrible thing if he convinced himself that everyone in his sister's situation deserved to die. In fact, the murders here are very similar to two in Shreveport that haven't been solved up until now, and we're expecting Rene to touch on those while he's rambling along. If he makes it."
I could feel my lips pressing together in horrified sympathy for those other poor women.
"Can you tell me what happened to you?" Andy asked quietly. "Go slow, take your time, and keep your voice down to a whisper. Your throat is badly bruised."
I had figured that out for myself, thanks very much. I murmured my account of the evening, and I didn't leave anything out. Andy had switched on a little tape recorder after asking me if that was all right. He placed it on the pillow close to my mouth when I indicated the device was okay with me, so he'd have the whole story.
"Mr. Compton still out of town?" he asked me, after I'd finished.
"New Orleans," I whispered, barely able to speak.
"We'll look in Rene's house for the rifle, now that we know it's yours. It'll be a nice piece of corroborative evidence."
Then a gleaming young woman in white came into the room, looked at my face, and told Andy he'd have to come back some other time.
He nodded at me, gave me an awkward pat on the hand, and left. He gave the doctor a backward glance of admiration. She was sure worth admiring, but she was also wearing a wedding ring, so Andy was once again too late.
She thought he seemed too serious and grim.
I didn't want to hear this.
But I didn't have enough energy to keep everyone out of my head.
"Miss Stackhouse, how are you feeling?" the young woman asked a little too loudly. She was brunette and lean, with wide brown eyes and a full mouth.
"Like hell," I whispered.
"I can imagine," she said, nodding repeatedly while looking me over. I somehow didn't think she could. I was willing to bet she'd never been beaten up by a multiple murderer in a graveyard.
"You just lost your grandmother, too, didn't you?" she asked sympathetically. I nodded, just a fraction of an inch.
"My husband died about six months ago," she said. "I know about grief. It's tough being brave, isn't it?"
Well, well, well. I let my expression ask a question.
"He had cancer," she explained. I tried to look my condolences without moving anything, which was nearly impossible.
"Well," she said, standing upright, returning to her brisk manner, "Miss Stackhouse, you're sure gonna live. You have a broken collarbone, and two broken ribs, and a broken nose."
Shepherd of Judea! No wonder I felt bad.
"Your face and neck are severely bruised. Of course, you could tell your throat was hurt."
I was trying to imagine what I looked like. Good thing I didn't have a mirror handy.
"And you have lots of relatively minor bruises and cuts on your legs and arms." She smiled. "Your stomach is fine, and your feet!"
Hohoho. Very funny.
"I have prescribed pain medication for you, so when you start feeling bad, just ring for the nurse."
A visitor stuck his head in the door behind her. She turned, blocking my view, and said, "Hello?"
"This Sookie's room?"
"Yes, I was just finishing her examination. You can come in." The doctor (whose name was Sonntag, by her nameplate) looked questioningly at me to get my permission, and I managed a tiny "Sure."
JB du Rone drifted to my bedside, looking as lovely as the cover model on a romance novel. His tawny hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights, his eyes were just the same color, and his sleeveless shirt showed muscle definition that might have been chiseled with a—well, with a chisel. He was looking down at me, and Dr. Sonntag was drinking him in.